Gospel of Luke

“What do you think is the most important word in the Bible?” That’s the question author Sara Miles posed to the audience who gathered at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln Lutheran Center last month.

My pastor Beth Ann was there that night, and when we met for lunch a couple of days later, she asked me the same question.

I couldn’t decide on my answer; there were too many good options. Was it love? Grace? Forgiveness? Salvation? Or maybe it Jesus or God – those both seemed like good possibilities, too.

I looked at Beth Ann and shrugged, unable to choose just one word.

“She said it was with,” Beth Ann answered. “She said the most important word in the Bible is with.”

I hadn’t expected that answer, but when I heard it, I nodded. Out of context, with isn’t a very important or impactful word. A mere preposition, with doesn’t carry much weight. But in the context of the Bible, and in the context of this day, Christmas Eve, with is everything.

Immanuel.

It means God with us. Not simply God alone – unreachable, distant, removed – but God with us – right here, right now, in the midst of our everyday, ordinary, messy lives.

In the Gospel of Luke we read a story that for many is as familiar as our own personal history. Some of us have read the story of Jesus’ birth every Christmas for as long as we can remember. Some of us can recite it nearly by heart. And yet, when was the last time we really thought about the impact of Jesus’ birth on our own personal lives and on who we are as human beings living in this present moment?

Jesus came humbly, with humility, not as a powerful, ruling Lord, but as a helpless, dependent, human baby, wrapped in swaddling and laid in a manger. He came like the rest of us, as a human being. He was divine, but he was also human, and he experienced life, with its laughter and lament, its triumph and travail, like we do.

Jesus knows our pain, and our passion; he knows the depth of our sorrow and the height of our joy. He knows it because he lived it. He knows it because he lives it with us still.

With. It’s a small word, a preposition, pretty ordinary and unremarkable. But when it comes to our Savior, with makes all the difference. Immanuel is God with us, born into flesh 2,000 years ago, present with us today.

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From my family to yours, we wish you a joyful Christmas and a peaceful, healthy New Year. Thank you for being the very best people!

Back in 1983, when I was thirteen years old, the one thing I wanted for Christmas more than anything else in the world was a Cabbage Patch Kid. In particular, I wanted a Cabbage Patch Baby, a girl with a smooth bald head and a round, dimpled face.

Cabbage Patch Kids were all the rage that year, even among thirteen-year-olds. By the end of 1983, more than 3 million had been sold (the correct terminology at the time was “adopted”). I remember the lines snaking outside the doors of Toys R Us, the shelves stripped empty minutes after the store opened.

Needless to say, I didn’t get my Cabbage Patch Baby for Christmas that year. No matter where my mom looked, they were always sold out. And this was long before the Internet and the opportunity to bid ten times the original price for one on eBay (not that my parents would have done that…though I certainly would have expected them to).

I was crushed. That Christmas I received plenty of gifts – toys and clothes and stuffed animals and games – but none of it mattered to me. I didn’t really appreciate any of the gifts I received because none was the be-all-and-end-all gift I so desperately desired. I was ungrateful, simply because I had not received the gift.

I realize comparing Jesus to a Cabbage Patch Kid is a bit of a stretch, if not outright sacrilegious, but bear with me for a moment here.

Mary received the ultimate be-all-and-end-all gift when she was blessed with the Son of God. Clearly she was grateful for the blessing of Jesus Christ – her Magnificat, a song of praise and thanksgiving, is a testament to the depth of her gratitude for the ultimate of gifts.

But look closely at the words Mary speaks to Elizabeth, because there is something telling here:

“For the Mighty One is holy, and he has done great things for me.” (Luke 1:49)

“He has done great things for me.”

Things. Plural. Mary acknowledges that God had already done great things for her, even before blessing her with the greatest gift.

The Magnificat is a song of thanksgiving for all the gifts God has bestowed upon Mary, not just this one particular blessing, magnificent and spectacular though it was. It’s clear from this statement that she cultivated a continuous spirit of gratitude, even before she was blessed with the ultimate gift as the mother of our Savior Jesus Christ. Mary recognized that God had been good to her all along.

Truth be told, I’m not all that different today from the girl who was crushed by the Cabbage Patch Kid Christmas of 1983. Too often, I’m so caught up in the gift I desire right now, the blessing I think I deserve today, that I neglect the big picture; I fail to appreciate or even remember the myriad blessings God has bestowed on me all along. So focused am I on the one thing, I forget all the great things God has done for me.

I would do well to take a cue from Mary, who praised God all along for all the gifts, big and small, that had been bestowed upon her.

My husband, Brad, wrote this piece for our church’s daily e-devotional, and I loved it so much, I asked him if I could run it here today – the perfect post for Christmas Day. Wishing you and your loveys a blessed and happy Christmas and a joyful New Year. See you on January 8! Much love and gratitude, Michelle

When our first son was born with a nasty case of colic, the nurses showed us how to swaddle him up tight. It helped calm him a bit, but since the colic didn’t go away for six months, I eventually learned to swaddle with the efficiency of a rodeo calf roper. I could swaddle that kid up in about seven seconds flat, throw my hands up in the air, and look to the imaginary judges for my score.

It’s interesting, in this greatest of stories, that Luke provides us with the information that the baby Jesus was wrapped in swaddling clothes or, as the NLV has it, “wrapped snugly in strips of cloth” (Luke 2:12). The purpose of swaddling is to keep a baby warm and feeling secure. In short, the tightly-folded cloth mimics the security and familiarity of the womb. The fact that Luke mentions such a humble detail points to the emphasis of the first half of the passage:

Jesus comes to us in the simplest, most vulnerable form we can understand.

A few verses later, and apparently at about the same time as the birth, we’re told that an angel announces the miracle to the shepherds and is then “joined by a vast host of others–the armies of heaven–praising God and saying,

Glory to God in highest heaven, and peace on earth to those with whom God is pleased” (Luke 2:13-14 NLV).

There could not be a greater contrast between the lowly and the magnificent in these two scenes. Here, in these fourteen verses, is our entire story: the suffering, deprivation and fear–the exaltation, the majesty and victory. It reminds us that God, the full splendor of God, is with us in our weakness and always will be.

I attend a fair number of Christian conferences every year, and I often feel a bit out of my element in that environment. Not only are my peers typically a little more conservative in their theology than I am, they are also much more demonstrative when it comes to worship. I find myself standing awkwardly with my arms at my side or crossed over my chest, while most everyone else around me raises their hands heavenward, eyes closed, swaying passionately to the music. More recently I’ve taken to sitting in the back, where I can be my stoic, uptight self without anyone noticing.

I used to feel badly about my lack of passion during worship. I worried it reflected a lack of faith. Why don’t I get all emotional over Jesus? I wondered. I worried that acting like such a stuffed shirt meant I didn’t love God enough.

I’ve since realized that there’s no one right way to worship and celebrate God. What counts isn’t how we demonstrate our love God, but that we love God with our whole heart, mind and soul.

Let’s look at some of the people featured in the verses we read in church yesterday. When the shepherds heard the news about the birth of the Savior, they actively rejoiced, hurrying to the village to crowd into the manger. After witnessing the baby Jesus, they left immediately and began to spread the word, eager to tell everyone they encountered about this Good News. The shepherds put their faith and worship into motion – traveling, visiting and then verbally glorifying and praising God everywhere they went, even as they returned to their flocks.

Now compare that demonstrative reaction to Mary’s response. While the shepherds and other visitors crowded around her and the baby, praising, rejoicing and exclaiming over the astonishing news, Mary sat quietly amid the bustle, contemplating the amazing turn of events:

“All who heard the shepherds’ story were astonished, but Mary kept all these things in her heart and thought about them often.” (Luke 2:18-19)

The New International translation of these verses reads that Mary “treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart.” She didn’t sing Halleluiah or exclaim Amen or even pray audibly, but that didn’t mean Mary didn’t rejoice over the birth of the Savior. She rejoiced differently than the shepherds; she quietly received the gift.

The very different ways Mary and the shepherds worshipped Jesus reminds me that praise and prayer come in many forms – boisterous and joyful, quiet and contemplative. There’s no right or wrong or even preferred way to worship. Faith takes all shapes and sizes. Faith takes all forms. God, I believe, desires that we be ourselves, the people he made us to be, and to love and worship him in our own unique, perfect way.

Questions for Reflection:Have you ever participated in a worship service that was completely different from the kind you usually attend? Did it make you consider your faith or worship practices differently? Do you relate more to Mary or to the shepherds in these verses?

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The people I love most in the Bible are those, like Zechariah, who wrestle with doubt.

Zechariah actually starts off on the right foot. When Gabriel visits him in the temple, the priest is properly awed, trembling in amazement as he stands at the incense altar before the angel of the Lord. But when Gabriel prophecies that a baby — a son filled with the Holy Spirit, a son who will lead the Israelites to the Lord — will be born to the aged Zechariah and Elizabeth, the priest’s faith wavers. Skepticism begins to surface.

“How can I be sure this will happen?” Zechariah asks the angel. “I’m an old man now, and my wife is also well along in years.” (Luke 1:18) Zechariah doesn’t buy it. He wants proof.

Suddenly, this holy man who minutes before had stood trembling in awe and fear before the angel of the Lord now doubts what the angel tells him. Zechariah is only willing to go so far in faith. He’s willing to believe in God, but he’s not willing to believe in the possibility of God’s miracle.

I get this.

When the doctors told my mother-in-law that there was nothing more they could do, that her cancer had spread too far, I didn’t pray for a miracle. I prayed for hope, strength and peace. I prayed that Janice would find solace and comfort in her last weeks. I prayed that Brad and his father and brother would find the strength they needed to endure the loss. I prayed that my children would somehow survive the aching absence of their beloved grandmother. But I didn’t pray for healing. I didn’t pray for a miracle.

Looking back, I think I was afraid to pray for the miracle because I didn’t want God to disappoint me. I figured if I didn’t ask, if I didn’t allow myself the expectation, the hope, I would avoid the crush of disappointment if it didn’t turn out as I so desperately wished. Ironically, I didn’t have faith that my faith could withstand God’s no, so I didn’t even bother to ask. I didn’t allow myself to pray the big, bold prayer because I was afraid my faith would collapse in the absence of a miracle. I kept my distance from God; I held him at arm’s length.

I didn’t allow God to be God.

I wish this story had a happy ending. I wish I could tell you I learned my lesson and that my faith is now rock-solid, unwavering, complete. But I can’t, because it’s not. In many ways I am still Zechariah, my voice hesitant and skeptical, my prayers strained with disbelief. Doubt still unfurls its tenacious tentacles, squeezing into the cracks, lodging itself firmly in my faith. More often than not, my prayer is still, “Lord, I do believe, but help my overcome my unbelief.” (Mark 9:23-25)

Questions for Reflection:
Have you ever held back in your prayers, unwilling to pray bold and big? What do you think was your reason for doing that? Do you think doubt and faith can co-exist?

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Welcome to the Hear It on Sunday, Use It on Monday community, a place where we share what we are hearing from God and his Word each week. If you’re here for the first time, click here for more information.

Please include the Hear It, Use It button (grab the code below) or a link in your post, so your readers know where to find the community if they want to join in — thank you!

Please also try to visit and leave some friendly encouragement in the comment box of at least one other #HearItUseIt participant. And if you want to tweet about the community, please use the #HearItUseIt hashtag.

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Living out faith in the everyday is no joke. If you’re anything like me, some days you feel full of confidence and hope, eager to proclaim God’s goodness and love to the world. Other days…not so much.

Let me say straight up: I wrestle with my faith. Most days I feel a little bit like Jacob, wrangling his blessing out of God. And most days I’m okay with that. I believe God made me a questioner and a wrestler for a reason, and I believe one of those reasons is so that I can connect more authentically with others.